Thank god the weather has been getting nicer. Taking Chooch outside really helps break up the monotony of being pathetic housebound charity cases. Plus, Chooch’s obscenity arsenal always enjoys a nice change of scenery. It’s basically like he’s taking his show on the road. Yes, random person ambling past our house, this really is how my child always acts. Awesome, right?
It was warm yesterday, mid-sixties at least, yet he insisted on keeping his hood up. I think he’s embarrassed of this one patch of hair on the back of his head. It’s still super short, stunted almost, from him sleeping on his back, and so frizzy that it appears cinged. It drives Henry nuts and at least once a day he threatens to shave it off, as though this poor, Charlie Brown-like follicular thatch is phycially assaulting him. It doesn’t bother me at all, though I do catch myself making futile attempts to slick it down with my saliva.
The rest of his hair has finally grown to a significant length. This is good because Henry and I have already decided that he’s going to Warped Tour with us this July so we’ll be able to style it accordingly. Unless he tries to wear a hood in spite of the ninety degree weather, for fashion’s sake.
I can’t express my gratitude to the person who invented puzzles, because they have been keeping Chooch’s wandering attention rapt for weeks now. He’s built up quite a collection, and thank god we upgraded to larger piece-counts, because it gives me some time to return a phone call in peace, read a few pages in a book, take a fucking piss.
Thank you Mr(s). Puzzle Inventor.
Chooch loves feta cheese, but he already knows he can’t like Swiss. His words, not mine. He’s put Lost Boys on the backburner for the time being in order to adequately obsess over Twilight. Henry apparently saw somewhere that they’re holding auditions for extra vampires and we want to take Chooch, since he already has the natural fangs. Seriously, I will be so sad if they fall out and aren’t replaced by an adult set. His fangs are fucking badass.
Chooch somehow always knows when I’m on the phone with Christina, without me telling him. I know this because he’ll take the phone and say, “I’m going to eat Jesus’s face!” He only says this to her, because he knows how much she loves that Jesus fellow and he gets great satisfaction from making her upset. She probably feels inspired to say the Rosary every time she talks to him.
He’s not saying “asshole” as much as he was, having graduated to the scathingly monosyllabic “bitch.” However, he was acting a fool the other day, and when I started to say, “Chooch, you’re such a—-” he finished it by saying “Asshole!” Not what I was going to say, but it effectively conveyed my point. So yeah — bitch. He loves it and says it with such detached ambivalence and blase that I can’t help but wonder if he’s been palling around with Paris Hilton. In fact, just the other day we went to visit my grandmother, whom he hasn’t seen since Halloween. (That in itself is a story for another day.) So, he walks right into her den, leans against the couch and goes, “Hi, bitch.” To my grandmother, who is offended by pretty much anything that I even had a remote part in.
But she laughed, the same lady who nearly had a heart attack when I announced my pregnancy and screeched “You weren’t meant to have children!” ad nauseum. This same lady laughed so hard I had to hiss, “Grandma, don’t encourage him!”
“But he sounded so casual!” she cried.